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Kent
Just an ordinary lady who loves to try her hand at writing
Poems
Nat Lipstadt
May 2015
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...
that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows the when and why of differing
cuddling styles...
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows when to leave a man alone
alone in his man-mourning time,
distance needed,
letting his ex-rage dissipate or
watching his red and blue football
redefine ignominy...
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when the man low whistles, eyes adrift,
she heartily agrees and is
reciprocity rewarded regularly
with hunk alerts of
"hey-check-him-out!"
that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
a tigress in the bedroom
she asking, try this, I'll love it,
served with a desert demo of awkward afterward,
his less-than-perfect cuddling abilities
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who doesn't abhor partner silences,
comforting they are, in their own ways,
lying side by side, interrupted only by peccadillo body noises unexpected and
sheepish apologies and loving arm stroking
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who lets the man roar, top of voice,
when imprisoned in car,
his voice, un enfant terrible,
performs with Creedence Clearwater
a sing-a-long in traffic, asking
"Have you ever seen the rain"
while amidst Israel-leaving-Egypt
Sunday beach traffic on the L.I.E.
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
when it's pheromones alternative mode day,
he celebrates Carole King day,
she demonstrates her cuddling abilities,
par excellence, with kisses and tissues
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...
a woman, plain confident in her abilities
no matter the situational status,
when confronted by
less-than-crazy-impetuous,
she smiling says "why not,"
when he proposes,
a movie and dinner in a fav haunt?
"plenty excellent enough" her answer,
spoke in a rising voice
full of unfeigned delight
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
accepting the unexpected airport embrace
on a moving sidewalk, unexpected delays
with the aplomb of a well lived life's
long term sustainability perspective
when he kisses her hand for no reason,
while driving 75 miles per hour,
she only winces internally,
the other hand vise-grasping
the other door's handle,
who brushes hair wisps in a dark movie,
celebrating her Bathsheba Everdeen's
duality of strength and tenderness
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when on second date he proposes
a non-exclusive relationship,
confident enough to high-five respond,
and laugh about it,
seven years on
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when she reads it,
analyzing the oeuvre as
"too **** personal and
as usual
too **** long"
that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her
cuddling abilities
in everything...
even a little occasional criticism
that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows the when and why of differing
cuddling styles...
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows when to leave a man alone
alone in his man-mourning time,
distance needed,
letting his ex-rage dissipate or
watching his red and blue football
redefine ignominy...
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when the man low whistles, eyes adrift,
she heartily agrees and is
reciprocity rewarded regularly
with hunk alerts of
"hey-check-him-out!"
that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
a tigress in the bedroom
she asking, try this, I'll love it,
served with a desert demo of awkward afterward,
his less-than-perfect cuddling abilities
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who doesn't abhor partner silences,
comforting they are, in their own ways,
lying side by side, interrupted only by peccadillo body noises unexpected and
sheepish apologies and loving arm stroking
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who lets the man roar, top of voice,
when imprisoned in car,
his voice, un enfant terrible,
performs with Creedence Clearwater
a sing-a-long in traffic, asking
"Have you ever seen the rain"
while amidst Israel-leaving-Egypt
Sunday beach traffic on the L.I.E.
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
when it's pheromones alternative mode day,
he celebrates Carole King day,
she demonstrates her cuddling abilities,
par excellence, with kisses and tissues
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...
a woman, plain confident in her abilities
no matter the situational status,
when confronted by
less-than-crazy-impetuous,
she smiling says "why not,"
when he proposes,
a movie and dinner in a fav haunt?
"plenty excellent enough" her answer,
spoke in a rising voice
full of unfeigned delight
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
accepting the unexpected airport embrace
on a moving sidewalk, unexpected delays
with the aplomb of a well lived life's
long term sustainability perspective
when he kisses her hand for no reason,
while driving 75 miles per hour,
she only winces internally,
the other hand vise-grasping
the other door's handle,
who brushes hair wisps in a dark movie,
celebrating her Bathsheba Everdeen's
duality of strength and tenderness
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when on second date he proposes
a non-exclusive relationship,
confident enough to high-five respond,
and laugh about it,
seven years on
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when she reads it,
analyzing the oeuvre as
"too **** personal and
as usual
too **** long"
that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her
cuddling abilities
in everything...
even a little occasional criticism
Entirely fictional, of course.
L.I.E. is the Lomg Island Expressway, a/k/a, the longest parking lot in the world.
Red and blue football team, the NY Giants.
Bathsheba Everdeen from Hardy's "Far From the Madding Crowd."
Alternate song choice, the Eagkes "Take It Easy."
Inspired by this:
http://www.nytimes.com/2015/05/10/style/modern-love-tinder-swiping-right-but-staying-put.html?rref=collection%2Fcolumn%2Fmodern-love&contentCollection;=style&action;=click&module;=NextInCollection®ion;=Footer&pgtype;=article
L.I.E. is the Lomg Island Expressway, a/k/a, the longest parking lot in the world.
Red and blue football team, the NY Giants.
Bathsheba Everdeen from Hardy's "Far From the Madding Crowd."
Alternate song choice, the Eagkes "Take It Easy."
Inspired by this:
http://www.nytimes.com/2015/05/10/style/modern-love-tinder-swiping-right-but-staying-put.html?rref=collection%2Fcolumn%2Fmodern-love&contentCollection;=style&action;=click&module;=NextInCollection®ion;=Footer&pgtype;=article
Terry Collett Aug 2013
THE SHORTEST GIRL IN CLASS.
Terry Collett
Aug 2013
Carole was one
of the shortest girls
in class;
she had blonde
short cropped hair
and sat next to Miss Pretty,
and was always yakking,
always giving her opinion
on something or other,
her voice was high
( as if someone had
grabbed her ****
Reynard said),
her eyes blue,
her compact body
(seen from behind)
was clothed in the cardigan
and skirt and blouse
of the uniform of the school.
You watched her
as she put a hand
to the side of her mouth
and whispered to Miss Pretty.
Her thin small hand
hid her mouth;
just the whispering sound
hung on the air.
Can you be quiet, Carole,
Miss Graham, the teacher said.
Reynard whispered,
fancy being married to her;
she'd wear your ears away,
with her non-stop tongue.
And looked at her backside,
imagine that lying next
to you in bed each morning,
he added.
You tried not to,
imagine that is,
not that at least,
Miss Pretty maybe,
you thought,
taking in her thin frame
beside short *** Carole
sitting next to her.
Miss Graham put on
the Mozart LP
on the record player
and the class sat
bemused or bored,
except Miss Pretty
whose head nodded slowly,
whose foot tapped
a silent beat
and shorty Carole
whose mouth was sealed,
arms crossed,
elbows on the desk,
sat with eyes fixed
on the record player.
While Reynard muttered comments
about both the girls,
debating in whispered voice,
who had the biggest backside,
or smallest *******,
who he would least like
to kiss, while you,
wondering how long
it took for the Mozart guy
to compose the stuff,
noticing Miss Pretty's
pointing finger
conducting,
some imagined orchestra,
her long wrist moving
like a moving swan,
her head to one side,
stirring momentarily,
an odd feeling within you,
which you had to hide.
of the shortest girls
in class;
she had blonde
short cropped hair
and sat next to Miss Pretty,
and was always yakking,
always giving her opinion
on something or other,
her voice was high
( as if someone had
grabbed her ****
Reynard said),
her eyes blue,
her compact body
(seen from behind)
was clothed in the cardigan
and skirt and blouse
of the uniform of the school.
You watched her
as she put a hand
to the side of her mouth
and whispered to Miss Pretty.
Her thin small hand
hid her mouth;
just the whispering sound
hung on the air.
Can you be quiet, Carole,
Miss Graham, the teacher said.
Reynard whispered,
fancy being married to her;
she'd wear your ears away,
with her non-stop tongue.
And looked at her backside,
imagine that lying next
to you in bed each morning,
he added.
You tried not to,
imagine that is,
not that at least,
Miss Pretty maybe,
you thought,
taking in her thin frame
beside short *** Carole
sitting next to her.
Miss Graham put on
the Mozart LP
on the record player
and the class sat
bemused or bored,
except Miss Pretty
whose head nodded slowly,
whose foot tapped
a silent beat
and shorty Carole
whose mouth was sealed,
arms crossed,
elbows on the desk,
sat with eyes fixed
on the record player.
While Reynard muttered comments
about both the girls,
debating in whispered voice,
who had the biggest backside,
or smallest *******,
who he would least like
to kiss, while you,
wondering how long
it took for the Mozart guy
to compose the stuff,
noticing Miss Pretty's
pointing finger
conducting,
some imagined orchestra,
her long wrist moving
like a moving swan,
her head to one side,
stirring momentarily,
an odd feeling within you,
which you had to hide.
Kath Whitehead
Apr 2015
Our train comes to a standstill
looking down on a bluebell graveyard
where lines of tall green headstones stand
shoulder to shoulder, arms length apart.
The ones near the wall lean
on each other, like friends,
as in life. Carole says each one of those
upright stones is a person, standing,
looking right back at us asking what do we do
now? I ponder that thought.
Carole wants Coldplay’s, Why Worry going
in and Eminem’s, Lose Yourself as people are leaving.
She holds me responsible.
She doesn't want flowers, they always make her sneeze.
looking down on a bluebell graveyard
where lines of tall green headstones stand
shoulder to shoulder, arms length apart.
The ones near the wall lean
on each other, like friends,
as in life. Carole says each one of those
upright stones is a person, standing,
looking right back at us asking what do we do
now? I ponder that thought.
Carole wants Coldplay’s, Why Worry going
in and Eminem’s, Lose Yourself as people are leaving.
She holds me responsible.
She doesn't want flowers, they always make her sneeze.